Ghosts
by Ulura
Summary: A case goes wrong, very wrong. Sherlock loses his best and only friend. Sherlock struggles to cope without John and John struggles to move on to the next life. No slash
1. Chapter 1: Flames

**John**

Running around London had become something of a habit for John and Sherlock. It was always on the worst of nights to; if it wasn't pouring down torrents of rain the sky would dump freezing hail or frigid wind on them. Tonight was not as bad however, the wind still bit at his exposed collar but the rain had mercifully stopped an hour before the chase began. The stones were still slick and wet but at least there was no more falling down on him. That didn't stop his pants being soaked through almost up to the knee however, for some reason Sherlock always lead him through the deepest puddles.

They were chasing a murderer this time, Sherlock out in front, John, ever loyal, a few steps behind him. They had lost Lestrade a few streets back. When he took the chance to glance over his shoulder he could see the inspector about a block behind them, talking furiously into his radio no doubt demanding back up. Something Sherlock never had the wisdom to do. John was so busy panting and doing his best to keep up he didn't register Sherlock's sudden halt as he zipped around the corner, resulting in the doctor crashing into Sherlock's back.

"Sherlock what-?" John began but was silenced by Sherlock's palm before he had a chance to continue. Nodding as Sherlock removed his hand and walked down the alley way, pointing to the metal door which was ever so slightly ajar. How Sherlock managed to notice that while running so fast the good doctor had no idea.

The inside of the building was musty, it stank of oil, most likely because of the huge drums filled with slick black sludge by the door. Must be a shipping storage room, there were only three drums left in the entire warehouse. Leaving the man nowhere to hide. He turned back angrily to the pair, who had just reached the centre of the room, before reaching into his pocket and pulling out a gun. Army instincts worked instantaneously and soon John's handgun was also out aimed perfectly at the man's chest.

"There is no point" Sherlock said to the man somewhat tiredly, "I can tell by the way your hands are shaking you have never fired that gun before in your life. In fact I'd say you only have it with you to scare people, you are a bad shot no doubt and if you miss us the bullet will most likely hit one of those large and very flammable drums of oil"

"Shut up ya ponce!" The man yelled back giving the gun a wave, "Ya think you're so smart"

"I am that smart" Sherlock countered

"Sherlock…" John warned, he may be a genius but he wasn't bullet proof.

"It is best if you come with us peacefully" Sherlock continued ignore John's advice, "See those flashes of blue and red? I'd say Lestrade is about to walk through those doors any second"

"I ain't going, not quietly!" The man raged, couldn't they ever be calm?

Then many things happened at once. The man yelled and aimed his gun, badly, at Sherlock and fired. The detective dodged instinctually, bullet just catching on his long coat before whizzing off into the back of the warehouse and crashing into the drums of oil.

"Oh shi-" John started but never got to finish as the drum and all it's neighbouring drums, exploded in a huge torrent of fire and heat.

Then everything was black, for a few awful seconds he felt the heat on his skin then nothing. Blinking his eyes open he found himself lying on the ground not too far from where he had been standing. Dazed and very confused he sat up and looked at the blackened rubble that was the warehouse, two of the walls had collapsed into broken piles on the floor and most of the roof had come down as well. Yet, he didn't feel hurt. That wasn't right, looking at all the destruction around him, it was impossible for him to be completely unharmed, and a quick examination proved he was indeed perfectly fine.

"Sherlock?" He called, voice was mostly droned out by the sounds of shouting police as they entered the wrecked building and began shifting the rubble looking for his partner and of course himself.

He spotted Sherlock half buried by a pile of bricks and dust a few feet away, eyes closed.

"Hey over here!" He yelled running over to his friend, who on inspection was still breathing. He turned hoping to see some people following his call but they ignored him, couldn't they see this was important?

"Hey I found the criminal!" One called, "Brick to the temple, he's been dead for minutes already"

"Find John and Sherlock" Lestrade ordered, scanning the area and spotting Sherlock just as he coughed.

John stood up to ask the inspector to help him move the bricks of the detective slowly but the Inspector walked right through him. Not metaphorically. Physically. As in walked through John like he was nothing but air, like he wasn't there!

"Lestrade what the hell!" The doctor yelled, only to be ignored once more.

"Sherlock! Hey Sherlock!" Lestrade gave the mans shoulder a light shake, "Come on don't be dead…"

Sherlock groaned and rolled onto his side in a failed attempt to stand, wincing. Broken ribs then, John surmised from his apparently invisible position. His arm is broken too, concussion to the right side of the face, severe bruising…

Lestrade called over the medics and gently helped the dazed detective onto it. Luckily it didn't take very long because Sherlock was unconscious again by the time they started moving the stretcher out of the building.

"Hey Lestrade…" Donovan called in a careful voice, "We've found John…"

What? How could they find him over there? He was standing a good five or six metres away from her for Christ sakes had the whole world gone mad?

Lestrade walked over and since nobody could see or hear him, John followed, feeling oddly light on his feet. What greeted him was sickening. He was looking at himself. Only different. He was wearing the same clothes that he was but they were ripped, burnt and bloodied. The right half of the body was terribly burnt and red and judging by the awful sink in the middle of his chest his sternum was completely shattered. What frightened him the most however was the way his eyes were half open, glassy and empty, staring right back up at him.

"Oh God…" Lestrade murmured into his palm.

So that's why nobody could see or hear him. He was dead. It was so strange, he didn't feel any panic. In a way he felt stupid for not figuring it out sooner, of course he was dead, so what was he now then? A ghost? Did he just float about forever? He had no idea.

"Sherlock is going to…" Lestrade ran his hands through his hair, "Who's gonna tell him?"

Sally shrugged, obviously not caring who told Holmes what had happened, her sympathy was for the dead man on the ground, who unbeknownst to her, was also standing to her left.

Not wanting to see himself packed up and taken to the morgue, John walked over the rubble and followed the ambulance taking Sherlock to St. Barts. After a few shaky jumps he figured he could keep himself airborne if he wanted to and move just as fast as the ambulance, so keeping up was n problem. Well there was two upsides to being dead, he could fly and he never got tired. Still, it wasn't much, considering all he had left behind.

**Hey, Please tell me if you want me to continue this story :) If people like it, I'll feel more motivvated to update :)**


	2. Chapter 2: Shock

**John**

Sherlock had been taken into surgery as soon as he reached the hospital, John floated around the ceiling of the room looking down on his friend assessing his condition as the procedure went on. Once he had confirmed he would live John floated up through the roof and a number of rooms to reach the top of . Swearing as he hit the ceiling of the cancer ward, he hadn't quite gotten the hang of staying intangible yet, no matter what, anything human or animal passed through him but not other objects. He had discovered this when he first arrived at the hospital and had tried to stand on the floor only to fall through it into the morgue.

Finally he made it to the roof, hovering over it for a few seconds to make sure he was solid before carefully stepping out onto the concrete. He looked out over the blinking lights of London, he wondered if this was it, was this what happened when you died? Surely not, otherwise there would be other ghosts everywhere, especially here at a hospital.

"Hey! Dead guy!"

That got his attention. He swung around to see a grinning, black haired man with very few teeth smiling at him. The thing that caught the doctors eye however was none of these traits but the fact that the man was floating a few feet off the ground.

"You see me!" John blinked, not really registering how stupid those words sounded.

"Kinda yeah" The man laughed, "I saw an ambulance go in there a while back, was that you?"

"Ummm no, my friend" John replied feeling very strange, "I...died, in an explosion"

"Still having trouble coming to terms with it eh?" The guy chuckled, "Don' worry, everybody is a bit weirded out at first"

"So, is this it?" John asked, shrugging to their surroundings.

"Nah, something more once you cross over I expect" The man sighed looking up at the stars, "We tend to hang around for a while before finding peace and then we just kinda fade away...into the next life"

"Right, well thanks" John smiled nervously feeling a tad uncomfortable, "I think I'll...go see my friend"

"Right you are" The man gave him a nod before floating off the side of the building and flying down onto the street, John shivered. This wasn't some nightmare he was really truly dead and if he was honest, he was scared. Nobody he knew or cared about could even see or talk to him, unless they died of course but John wouldn't wish that on anybody.

He wished Sherlock could talk to him, how was he supposed to 'find peace' and move on if he was so lonely? Watching all his friends mourn, burry and then move on with their lives without him. Sighing he sunk down into the hospital and found the room where Sherlock was sleeping, Lestrade had taken up a post at the detectives side in a stiff looking hospital chair. At least his friend wouldn't be alone when he woke, Lestrade wouldn't leave him. Resigning himself to the fact that he could do nothing, John sank into the other chair and waited.

**Sherlock**

Slowly Sherlock's thoughts began to bubble to the surface, coming much too slowly. His first thought was that he had no doubt been given a huge dose of morphine which was slowing his brain, something he hated. He tried his best to asses the situation, something that was hard to do when your eyes refused to open. He could tell he was in a bed, not his own. The strong smell of chemicals and the soft beating of a heart monitor told him hospital, he must of been fairly badly injured as there was a mask over his mouth and he could hear the quiet hiss of the oxygen tank as he breathed.

He could hear no footsteps or other equipment which meant, to his utter annoyance, that Mycroft was involved and he was in a private room. He soon grew bored of listening and focused on opening his eyes, after a few minutes he succeeded and the blurry stark white room filled his vision. Blinking a few times to get his eyes to focus he noticed Lestrade sitting a few feet away watching him intently.

"Sherlock? Are you awake?" Sherlock would of rolled his eyes if he had the energy, such a stupid question. Gently Lestrade removed the oxygen mask so he could speak.

"Obviously" He answered, "Were I asleep I wouldn't be talking to you"

"How are you feeling?" Lestrade asked, he was hesitant, there was something he was trying to hide from him, Lestrade should know better than that by now.

"Like somebody filled my brain with too many sedatives" Sherlock replied dryly, "Why did you let them do that?"

"You were blown up Sherlock!" Lestrade exclaimed, "You have a concussion, three broken ribs, two more are fractured, a broken arm and sever bruising to 40% of your body. You need painkillers"

"I need to be able to think" Sherlock argued, twitching the fingers on his left hand, the only part of his lower arm that wasn't incased in plaster.

"You seem to be doing fine" Lestrade sighed, Sherlock narrowed his eyes, by now the inspector would usually of gotten frustrated and left, he just looked, tired. His brain finally catching up with him he realized John wasn't there. John would be here if he could, which meant he was injured as well, he hoped Mycroft had the decency to give him the same private room and service he himself was receiving. He didn't mind Mycroft interfering if it meant John was safer.

"How's John?" He asked wincing a little as he sat up against the pillows and backboard. He saw Lestrade stiffen. That wasn't a good sign, the doctor must of been badly injured. Oh God what if the heat effected his eyes and turned him blind? A hundred different awful scenarios played out in Sherlocks head within a matter of seconds.

"Where's John?" Sherlock asked, louder than he meant to, "How is he?"

"Listen, Sherlock, you really concentrate on getting better, you've only just woken up" Lestrande was fumbling.

"Lestrade tell me!" Sherlock demanded, he was starting to get annoyed. The inspector took a deep breath.

"John...didn't make it" Lestrade said finally, Sherlock's insides froze, he couldn't mean that. Anything but **that.** John couldn't be...

"He was dead when we found him, it looks like it was over almost instantly from what I saw if that makes you feel better" Lestrade continued, he didn't reply, or he couldn't, he didn't know which.

"John's...**dead?**" Sherlock finally managed his voice a much higher pitch than he intended, Lestrade swallowed and nodded slowly.

Despite the fact that his legs ached when they moved they some how managed to draw themselves up against his chest and pushed his forehead into his knees. He clawed his fingers into his hair, grabbing it and pulling on it until it hurt, but he didn't care. In the recesses of his mind he was aware of the beeping of his heart monitor going much faster than it should and Lestrade telling him to calm down but he ignored them both.

John couldn't be dead, he just couldn't be dead. He was lying. Lestrade was lying, he had to be lying. Because John couldn't be dead! He gasped for breath, why was his chest so tight all of a sudden? Why couldn't he breath?

An ice cold rush of wind passed through his shoulder making him jump nervously. Since when did his emotions get so out of check? How did John manage being so-John...John was dead. That's why he was like this. John was dead. Gone. Sherlock was alone again. God he didn't want to be alone!

He was so caught up in his grief he didn't even see the nurse rush in, nor did he feel a needle slip under his skin. It was only when the drowsiness came that he realized what had happened and by then he was lying back on his pillows, blinking very slowly before closing his eyes and falling asleep. The last thing he saw was a very pale inspectors face.

**Hey, I hope I did the initial reaction justice. Sherlock is always so calm to I imagined him going into shock was more realistic that a huge scream/tear fest. That will come later once he has gotten over the initial shock I imagine. **


	3. Chapter 3: Voice

**John**

The idea of Sherlock Holmes having a panic attack was ludicrous, well it had been until half an hour ago. Of all the reactions for Sherlock to have, that wasn't even on the list. John had felt awful watching, all his medical knowledge useless as his friend curled into a ball and gasped for air. There were no tears or sobs but in a way, that made it worse. John had, instinctually, tried to comfort him by grabbing his shoulder but his hand and most of his arm had sim ply gone straight through the detective. Sherlock had felt something through, he had jumped, John was sure of it. It had taken a huge dose of sedative to get Sherlock to lapse back into unconsciousness and now a nurse was watching him at all times. Lestrade, who had planned on leaving after Sherlock woke, plain refused to leave the room.

John had been forced to move from his place on the chair when the nurse had sat on him and had taken to floating just above the room. Looking down at his friend who was sleeping fitfully.

"Come on you sod" John sighed, "Even in death you worry me, you had better wake up soon"

For a second it almost seemed as though Sherlock could hear him, tossing his head to the side prompting the nurse to check his temperature. It saddened John to know Sherlock couldn't hear him.

"Who knew meeting you would be so much trouble" John continued anyway even if nobody could hear his voice, it felt nice to pretend, "Alright I did but don't you dare go blaming yourself for this, it wasn't your fault"

Sherlock's eyes shot open.

**Sherlock**

For a second, Sherlock was sure he heard John's voice, however when his eyes opened he wasn't there and the words, obviously part of a dream, faded from his memory. Lestrade was there and a nurse, both looking at him as if they expected him to grow horns.

For a few blissful seconds he couldn't remember why then it all came crashing back down on him, like the bricks of the warehouse only much, much harder. John was dead. He was dead because he followed you into a dangerous situation. John was dead because of you.

It's your fault.

You killed him.

It's all your fault.

_Murderer. _

"Sherlock?" Lestrade prodded his arm gently, the detective turned his head to show the detective he was listening, face completely devoid of emotion. He didn't speak, he didn't think he could.

"How are you feeling?" Lestrade tried, Sherlock just blinked.

"Do you remember about John?" Sherlock nodded slowly but didn't reveal any emotions.

"Can you talk?" The nurse asked, she didn't look him in the eye, she was holding her pen to a pad ready to take notes. She looked bored. Obviously hated this job, recently married, wanted to get home to her husband, was only in this job because her parents forced her. She wasn't important though, he just looked at her.

"Post Traumatic Stress…seemingly unable to speak" She jotted down as casually as somebody would add milk to a shopping list. Sherlock could see Lestrade disliked her as much as he did, that made him marginally happy.

"Could he talk before he learnt about his friends death?" The nurse asked bluntly, Sherlock turned away and looked at the opposite wall. She was dull.

"Yes" Lestrade sighed

"Looks like it was the shock of his death then" The nurse sounded bored, "I'll go get his doctor, see if he's got a case of full blown PTSD"

Sherlock heard the door click as she closed it behind her. He hoped she wouldn't come back. Perhaps his doctor would be more interesting, at least if he had a puzzle to work out he would be distracted from thinking about John. He blinked a few times. There was no way he was going to cry. He never cried, let alone in front of people.

"Were you staying quiet cause she annoyed you?" Lestrade tried, Sherlock still didn't look at him.

_'No, there is just nobody worth talking to' _Sherlock thought even though he knew if he tried to talk his voice would betray him, no matter who it was.

The doctor entered, he was just as boring as the nurse. However he actually did this job because he cared for people. Therefore Sherlock decided he was better than the nurse, even if he was cheating on his wife.

"So, Mr. Holmes how are you feeling?" He tried, What a stupid question, he wouldn't be in a hospital if he felt fine. He wanted to say "Like I just got blown up" but the words didn't quite make it to his mouth. So he glared instead.

"The nurse mentioned you have stopped talking, why is that?" The doctor tried again, _Perhaps because I killed my only friend? _Sherlock thought sarcastically.

Lestrade walked over and whispered something in the mans ear, Sherlock watched his eye brow rise before shrugging and trying again to get Sherlock to talk.

"Apparently the inspector thinks you may want your brothers company"

Sherlock sat up much faster than he should of, making his broken ribs twinge in pain but he ignored them. He focused all his energy into glaring at Lestrade with as much emotion as he could muster.

"Well, if that didn't get a rise out of him I don't think anything will" Lestrade said sadly, "If he could talk he'd be yelling"

"I see, PSTD, becoming a mute is a rare trait but it would explain his actions" The doctor mused, "I expect he was very talkative before, obviously he has subconsciously decided if he can't talk to John he shouldn't talk at all"

Sherlock changed his mind. He hated this doctor. Therefore he decided to ignore him, laying back down and staring at the ceiling. Post Traumatic Stress Disorder. The same disorder that had John invalided back to England in the first place. If it wasn't for that he wouldn't of ever met the man. Now he had the same problem, though instead of a limp, he lost his voice. No, he told himself, he hadn't lost his voice. He was choosing not to use it. If he wanted to he could talk, he could. He'd prove it by talking to himself when he got home. After all, Sherlock Holmes was much to mentally strong to be effected by such an ordinary thing.

He wanted out of this hospital, he hated hospitals. But where would he go? He couldn't go back to Baker Street, not without John. Oh God there was going to be a funeral, of course there would. Could he go? He wasn't sure. He had never gone to a funeral before, no doubt there were all kinds of social protocol to follow that he had no idea about. John would of told him. But he couldn't cause it was John's funeral. Would he even be allowed to go? Everybody would hate him more than ever now that he'd killed John.

Oh God. He'd killed John…

**Hey, please tell me your thoughts, the last chapter got only a few reviews so I've only got a vague idea of how people are enjoying this. **


	4. Chapter 4: Shrink

**John**

He sat at the edge of his friends bed, Sherlock was sitting up, playing with a rubic cube that Molly had bought him. He had already solved it twice, each time sighing before closing his eyes and twisting all the blocks around so he could start all over again.

He was trying to keep himself busy.

Once he had solved a puzzle, Sherlock would never try it again. It showed how truly bored the man was, though it also confused John. A while back Sherlock had to go to hospital for a concussion, he had promptly escaped the minute he was left alone and yet he had been here almost two full days without a single attempt. He also hadn't spoken a single word, not even to himself.

"Come on Sherlock" john urged, "Do something...Sherlock-ish, your acting like your the one who's the ghost"

Sherlock looked right through John tot he door which had just opened revealing his brother. The elder seemed almost sympathetic at the sight of his brother. Almost.

"You haven't tried to escape yet" Mycroft noted, Sherlock nodded.

"Come now Sherlock are you really not talking?" Mycroft continued, Sherlock nodded again, "I doubt you will keep it up"

Mycroft stayed a little longer to talk to the doctor about getting Sherlock a psychiatrist and even suggested the one who had treated John. It bugged John that they spoke about his friend like he wasn't there. After that Sherlock was left alone again, gripping his cube with frustration. A second later he glared at the little box of mismatched colours and threw it at the wall, smashing it into pieces.

Once again Sherlock grabbed at his hair, pulling on it with enough force to ensure he had a headache later, a small sob escaped him. For a second he was sure he was in hell. Sighed softly he went over to where the tiny colored squares lay on the floor and tangible pushed them, this gave him an idea. It took a great deal of energy but John managed to pick them up one at a time, occasionally he would become intangible and drop one but that didn't matter, the sound would insure Sherlock heard.

**Sherlock**

He listened as the stupid toy smashed against the white walls of the hospital. He wanted to leave here so much but he couldn't bring himself to think and when he did, guilt and thoughts of John flooded his mind. A small sob escaped his lips, he was trying so hard no to appear weak, he didn't know why. Doctors were trying to get him to release all the emotion he was keeping inside, he wanted to let it out but...he was afraid. His emotions were too strong once he gave in he couldn't stop.

His thoughts were interrupted when he heard a small _clink _of something plastic hitting the floor. He leaned over to look at the ground where the sound came from and his heart stopped. The little blocks were moving, slowly but surely into a pattern, roughly spelling out crude letters.

S H E R L O C K

He wanted to say John's name, call out see if he was here. His mouth moved but no sound came out. Why? He had been choosing not to talk, he could if he wanted to right? He tried again, still no sound. He couldn't talk.

Feeling pathetic and frustrated he scrambled to the small draw by his bed and grabbed the pad and pen inside scribbling down a note and holding it up to the air feeling stupid. Stupid, but hopeful.

_John are you there?_

he waited for almost a minute, feeling childish and foolish for even thinking that John could still be watching over him. Then the small cubes moved again slowly, John was having trouble moving them.

Y E S

Sherlock gasped a small smile managing to make its way onto his face. John was there, he was still here, we wasn't alone! The smile soon faded though, there were two explanations for this. Either he had gone made, or John was a ghost. Either way John wasn't really 'there', he was still dead and the detective was still alone. He flopped back into his bed, his head was aching he just wanted John to really be here...

He tried to will himself to wake up, prove that the last few days were just a nightmare. When he woke up John would be there, complaining about the fingers he left hanging off strings in the kitchen.

...

Shrinks were dull Sherlock decided, he'd been sitting in this arm chair leaning his head in the palm of his good hand for at least ten minutes. Aside from a welcome there had been no dialogue between he and his new therapist. Mycroft had made him go, it had taken three doctors to push him all the way down to the warm room. Apparently he was going to be spending the next few days in the psych ward instead on intensive care now that his injuries were healing.

It was comical really. People always told him top shut up and now that he did it was a mental illness. Honestly, people made no sense.

"Perhaps if you are not going to talk, you should write" the woman offered handing him a pad and pencil, "You could draw if you prefer"

He contemplated drawing an extremely detailed drawing of him strangling her but decided against it. If anything it will just increase the amount of time he needed to spend here. He hadn't mentioned the moving rubic cube blocks to anybody, he wasn't even sure if he had imagined it yet. His mind was sharp, precise, he'd never imagined anything in his life. Then again, he'd never lost his voice or had a panic attack either.

He twirled the pencil around for a few moments, shrink staring at him before sighing. He may as well try and get himself out of here by good behavior, it was the only way. If he escaped Mycroft would just drag him back.

_This is boring_

She raised her eyebrow at that.

"Do you get bored a lot?" She asked, he rolled his eyes and nodded

"Were you bored less often with John?" She continued

_Still got bored _

"Why don't you want to talk, is it because you are bored in the hospital?" She tried. Obviously she didn't actually think that was the reason, she was trying to goad him into saying something along the lines of "No I'm not talking cause John isn't here".

_No_

"What is it then?" She prodded

'_I miss John' _Sherlock thought to himself but he didn't write it, instead he placed the pad and pen on the floor. Content to wait in silence.

**What do you say? Daring escape? Or willing let go?**


	5. Chapter 5: Visiting

**Sherlock**

After a single hour in the psych ward Sherlock had decided he wouldn't be staying for much longer. He was sick of this hospital and even Baker Street without John was a better option so he sat quietly on his bed, mind ticking away with an escape plan. He monitored the desk and nurses rounds, discreetly checking when the night shift began and when there would be less staff on. He'd make a break for it tonight, it would be easy. Mycroft had dropped the henchmen, wrongly guessing he didn't have the energy for an escape since he hadn't already made an attempt. Mycroft was a fool.

That night he didn't take his painkillers, a necessary sacrifice; he couldn't be drowsy while he made a getaway. Besides he hated drugs that made him sleepy, which these did. He turned off his light early, pretending to sleep, the idiotic nurses believed him whole heartedly, how anybody got satisfying treatment in this hospital was beyond him. All the staff were idiotic.

Sherlock dashed down the hall with ease, ducking under the windows and slinking down the stairs to the first floor. He was about to step out the back door of the hospital loading bay when he felt a tug to his right. The staircase to the morgue. He knew from experience that it would be abandoned at this time of night, nobody had mentioned a funeral for John yet. His body would be down there.

The dominant, logic side of his brain told him to leave, by his calculations the nurses would notice his absence soon and the sooner he was on the streets the easier it would be to get home. However the emotional side wanted to see John, even if it was just a shell, a body. He had heard the news, but he hadn't seen it for himself yet. He still wasn't sure if he had imagined the cubes moving. Once he saw his body with his own two eyes he could doubt, he wanted to see his friend. He needed to see him.

Mentally sighing he made his way down to the morgue, the temperature was obviously close to freezing, and the thin hospital scrubs were not much help. He really should of tried to find his shoes; the tiles were freezing against his bare feet. As he anticipated the morgue was empty, two bodies were on the slabs, one was obviously a woman, the other was three inches taller than John. It made sense, eh had died a few days ago, he'd be in storage.

Sherlock felt his heart beating faster as he walked along the wall of silver draws housing the deceased. They had always been just bodies to him, corpses but now one of them was more. Much more. Finally he came across the typed label reading John Watson, it was at ground level so Sherlock knelt by it for a few moments. For a moment Sherlock prayed they were wrong, he'd never wanted people to be wrong so much in his entire life. Just for once let their stupidity work to his advantage. John Watson was a common enough name; perhaps it was another man, not his John.

Taking a deep breath he pulled the draw out, ignoring his shaking hands. It took him a few seconds to register that it really was his John. Eyes were closed, he looked peaceful enough, if it wasn't for the terrible wounds he could have been sleeping. Sherlock's brain stopped, for once, he didn't register all the wounds and analyse how they would have been inflicted. He just looked, kneeling at his long dead friend, trying to will him back into existence.

**John**

When Sherlock had made a run for it, John was secretly pleased. The doctor in him said Sherlock shouldn't leave the hospital yet but the adventurer in him told Sherlock to run faster. He floated along next to him, like he was escaping too, it was almost like being alive again.

But then Sherlock had stopped before escaping, his friend was many things, hesitant was not one of them. John felt his jaw drop and his stomach clench as the detective made his way down to the morgue, unaware that John was watching him walk the room, reading the name tags. Sherlock was looking for him. The doctor felt a pang of guilt, if only Sherlock knew he was here. The cubes had been a bad idea, he was sure Sherlock had considered the idea that it was a hallucinations. He wished there was a better way to communicate; he didn't want to have to resort to moving objects again.

Seeing himself laying in the draw, still in his burnt, bloody clothes made him feel strange. It felt so odd to be standing over himself and incidentally Sherlock who was kneeling at his side.

"I'm Sorry" Sherlock whispered after a while, the first thing he had said in days. Hopefully this meant he was getting better.

"Me too" John replied though he knew Sherlock couldn't hear.

"It's all my fault" The detective continued, John swore he saw tears in the corner of his best friend eyes. He couldn't bare to watch this, but he couldn't bare to leave.

"It's not your fault" John implored, Sherlock blinked and the tears fell down his face. He didn't sob or cry, he just let the water flow down his face. One thing Sherlock was, was proud, he'd never let anybody see him this way. Not before John's death anyway.

"I can't figure out if my mind was playing tricks on me the other day" Sherlock admitted, "I've always been able to trust my own senses, now I'm not sure"

"I'm here!" John yelled, such a yell should of echoed around the room, but it didn't, "Please see me"

"I was wrong" Sherlock sighed, leaning heavily on his knees, he hadn't bothers whipping his face yet, "You weren't like the rest of them, You weren't an idiot, I think, maybe I am"

"Come on we both know that's not true" John sighed sitting down next to Sherlock, "I can't believe your even capable of saying that"

"I wish you were here"

"I am"

Sherlock turned his head toward the sound of running feet down the hall toward the morgue.

"Lestrade" Sherlock deduced dryly, "I can tell by his pace"

He gazed back down at John, away from his friends ghost as the doors burst open. Tears still flowed freely down his face, though nobody could see yet. The doctors sighed in relief and Lestrade sighed in worry, quietly walking over to Sherlock and crouching down next to him.

"Sherlock" He called grasping the man's shoulder, Sherlock glared at him, though it had little effect. It's hard to find a man the least bit threatening when he has a tear stained face. Gently Lestrade closed the draw and helped Sherlock to his feet.

"Come on" he urged, Sherlock rubbed his hands over his face to clear it, regaining his usual stoic expression and dejectedly followed the inspector out of the morgue and back to the psych ward, John following behind. He reminded John of a lost child. John had do doubt Sherlock would make another attempt to escape tomorrow night.

"Somebody get the security tapes" Lestrade ordered, "Find out how he got out without being noticed, he'll try it again"

Sherlock narrowed his eyes at the inspector, well at least he'd have a challenge tomorrow.

**Sherlock speaks! Woo! he'll be leaving the hospital soon and I'm gonna have John appear to him soon I reckon. **


	6. Chapter 6: Shattered

**Sherlock**

The first thing that came to his mind was anger. He'd been sedated. Judging from how groggy he felt, heavily sedated. He tried to think back to the last thing he remembered, he remembered visiting John in the morgue and Lestrade was there…

He didn't enjoy having bits missing from his memory; it was frustrating and made him feel…human. He despised that. He wished Lestrade hadn't found him, even if John was dead, he had been able to speak again when in his presence, even if it was just his body.

"Stop pretending, I know you're awake" Came a calm voice. Sherlock groaned mentally, well it was supposed to be mentally instead it ended up escaping his lips as well as he opened his eyes, face to face with Mycroft. His brother didn't look fazed, just sat there twirling his umbrella around, looking smug.

"That was the worst escape attempt you've ever made" He continued, Sherlock glared at his brother before glancing around. Back in the psych ward. Fantastic.

"Don't worry, I'll be leaving soon" Mycroft sighed, "Just came to check on my favourite brother"

Sherlock rolled his eyes before turning on his side away from Mycroft. He waited there a few minutes until he heard the sound of Mycroft standing and exiting the small curtained off area. Bordem came quickly. It took him around six and a half minutes to devise his new escape plan. Now he had nothing to do until he could implement it. He opted to lay and still as possible and listen to the goings on around him, hoping that perhaps he would hear plans for John's burial.

**Lestrade**

The inspector entered psych ward as quietly as possible, Sherlock was not far from the entrance and by the looks of it, was asleep. That was good, at least he wasn't making a run for it yet.

"Inspector" The doctor greeted him, "I trust you watched the security tapes? We already handed them to his therapist"

"He spoke, I couldn't make out much but it was defiantly his voice" Lestrade admitted, sparing the sleeping man a glance.

"As I predicted, completely psychological" The doctor said confidently.

"He'll get through this" Lestrade sighed, not knowing who he was trying to convince. Noting Sherlock's eyes flick open ever so slightly, he wasn't asleep. He was observing. Lestrade had never felt so sorry for anybody in his life.

**Sherlock**

As predicted slipping out the hospital window had been simple enough, it took slightly longer than anticipated due to his sore ribcage and plaster covered hand but he did indeed get out before anybody noticed his absence. Hailing a cab took a while longer than he had predicted however, being dressed in pale blue hospital scrubs did make him stick out somewhat. But of there was one thing he had ever learnt it was that eventually, you would find a cabby desperate enough to take you, no matter what you looked like.

Writing down the address instead of saying it was an annoyance but at least he had the foresight to pick pocket Lestrade earlier in order to get the money needed, honestly, did the man think he had been sleeping the entire time?

Arriving back at 221b proved harder than he could of veer guessed, the fact that he knew John would not be inside almost physically pained him. Firstly he charged up the stairs and through the living room to his own bedroom, with his eyes closed, he didn't want to see any reminders of John. His room was the only place in the entire apartment without any mementos from the solider that had been his friend. Quickly he changed into his usual clothes, grateful he had another long black coat to replace the one that he been blown up.

Feeling more confidence than before he walked out into the living room, John's laptop was the first thing his eyes had fallen on. No doubt he'd find half the case typed up, ready to be finished when he got home. But he never would get home. He'd never finish writing it. Ever. Eyes stinging he headed for the kitchen where his experiments were, hoping they could help his focus. Distract him. They didn't. All he could think about it the mess he'd made and how John would have been complaining when he saw.

Why did John's mark have to be everywhere? It wasn't fair! In his mind he seriously began to consider inducing amnesia by drug over dose. He knew exactly how to do it but he knew it would be worthless. If he woke up with almost a two year gap in his memory he wouldn't stop until he had filled every single blank. Then he would be right back where he started. So forgetting wasn't an option, but the drugs most certainly were. A voice that sounded a lot like John reverbed around in his head, saying how much of a bad idea it was, how angry John would be if he knew. But he wouldn't. Because John wasn't here. He never would be ever again.

For the first time in years Sherlock felt rage bubbling up inside him, not just anger, full blown rage and pain. John was his only friend, why did he have to leave? It wasn't fair! Before he really understood what he was doing he grabbed his violin in his hand with so much pressure the wood cut into his hand leaving small red marks. He hated that gun man for firing the shot. He hated John for dying. Mostly he hated himself, for letting somebody managed to get into his little bubble. He hated himself for causing John's death. He hated everything!

He pulled his arm back as far as it could go with broken ribs and flung it across the room and into the wall with as much force as he could muster. The instrument splintered and broke into a thousand tiny pieces of wood and string. That violin was among his most precious possessions and he destroyed it, broke it beyond repair.

And he didn't care at all.

John had been much more important and he'd destroyed him too.

Finally Sherlock broke, falling onto the floor and curling up trying to make himself as small as possible.

And sobbed.


	7. Chapter 7: Comfort

**John**

Watching Sherlock stand alone in the apartment, emotions surfacing had been bad enough but nothing could stop the guilt as he watched Sherlock smash his violin. That violin was practically an extension of his own arms, the beautiful instrument meant more to Sherlock than any other item. And he had completely destroyed it.

The detective had dropped to the floor, sobbing. Not silent tears like before, full on sobs, making his whole body shake. It was more than John could take.

"Come on Sherlock stop this" He pleaded, "You've got to stop this!"

John had never wanted to hug Sherlock before, he knew how much he despised human contact but now, John suspected even Sherlock wouldn't stop him. If he could. He wanted to comfort him somehow. Sherlock stayed, curled up and sobbing for some time before finally going silent. He stayed perfectly still, curled up on the floor, he stayed that way so long John thought he may have cried himself to sleep. However it seemed he was awake, finally picking himself off the floor and making his way over to the empty fireplace.

John's mouth dropped as he shifted the bricks at the back of the hearth, revealing a small silver box. It was covered in a thick layer of dust, indicating it had been there a while. Sherlock clicked the box open, while simultaneously replacing the brick in the back of the fireplace. John felt as if he had been punched in the gut. The case contained several canisters of liquid, and a syringe.

That bastard! He had a supply of cocaine hidden from him all this time. The dust meant Sherlock hadn't touched the stuff in a very long time, which was a good factor but John had bigger problems. His friend was currently filling the syringe with much too much of the drug. John knew little about Sherlock's history with illicit substances but he did know that Sherlock always knew exactly how much he could take. He'd never over do it no matter how tired or frustrated he was, not unless he meant to. John was a doctor, had been a doctor, and even with his limited experience with junkies he knew the needle was filled with enough cocaine to kill a man. It also dawned on John that of he knew it was enough to kill, Sherlock certainly did. The detective unbuttoned his cuff.

For a few seconds everything slowed down, Sherlock poised the needle over a vein in his arm, just a few inches above the skin, ready to inject himself. John wouldn't let SHerlock die, especially not by his own hand.

"No!" He yelled, knocking the needle out of Sherlock's hand, sending it flying into the mantle above the fire and smashing into a thousand pieces. The liquid cocaine dripped down the wood and soaked into the carpet in tiny drops. Sherlock looked up at John from his position sitting on the floor. Mouth slightly agape, eyes wide. Had it been another time and place the look would of been comical. Sherlock Holmes, taken by surprise. Then John realised, Sherlock was looking at him, not through him, at him. His eyes fell on his hand which was frozen in mid air from swatting away the needle, it was solid. Up until now he had been translucent, half see through, now it was completely solid.

"John...?" Sherlock breathed, his voice was so quiet nobody would of heard him if the flat wasn't so completely quiet.

"You...you see me" John stammered taking a step back looking at his hands, after a few seconds he became transparent once more, however if Sherlock's face was anything to go by, he was not invisible.

"What the hell were you thinking!" John yelled, not really thinking about what a shock Sherlock would be receiving right now, "Sherlock you would of died!"

"Your fading..." Sherlock muttered, eyes glancing all over John's form, "You were solid a second ago, you've faded..."

Calming himself slightly, John knelt down in front of Sherlock, re buttoning the cuffs of the detective's shirt. He was thankful he was staying tangible, it seemed a lot easier right now but he didn't know how long it would last.

"You should be resting you know, not trying to make things worse with dru-"

John never got to finish that sentence because Sherlock had pulled him forward and enveloped him into a hug. The act was so un-Sherlock like John had was simply stuck in stunned silence before he returned the gesture. It was odd but he had a feeling Sherlock needed it and if he was honest, so did he, even if it was a bit awkward with him wearing a cast. After a minute Sherlock released his friend and John sat down next to him.

"You...you're here" Sherlock managed to mutter, eyes fixed on John's transparent form, like he was afraid he'd disappear, "I've gone mad haven't I? N-never thought that'd happen"

"No, you're not" John implored, "I'm really here, I'm just...not alive"

"It was all my fault...all my fault" Sherlock muttered, eyes shining with more unshed tears, John had never seen the man so emotional, "I-I killed you"

"Sherlock, That's not true" John insisted quietly, "You know that"

Once again Sherlock threw his arms around John's neck, resting his head on the elder mans shoulder. Gently John rested a hand on Sherlock's shoulder to reassure him, he could feel the tears soaking through his jumper, if that was even possible. He hadn't felt anything in days, not physically. John hadn't realised how important he had become to Sherlock, he was his only friend.

Ah, that was it.

The other ghost had told him he'd move on to what ever was next, after he found peace.

His peace would be Sherlock moving on, his happiness. By the looks of things he could be around for a while. That was ok though, he didn't mind.

"I'm sorry I scared you" John said finally, "I've been with you this whole time, you just couldn't see me, I didn't mean to appear so abruptly"

"You...never left?" Sherlock whispered into John's shoulder.

"Course not" John replied just as quietly, "Been with you ever since it happened, I was watching you in surgery and in recovery. Followed you on both your escapes too"

"I thought you'd left"

"Nah, things don't work that way, I'll explain some other time" John decided before lightly pushed Sherlock back, "Right now, I think you should get some rest, you're still injured plus I've given you a bit of a shock"

Shakily Sherlock got to his feet and walked back to his bedroom with John at his side, the detective climbed into bed, not once letting his gaze leave the doctor who had taken up a seat by his bedside. For a short second, Sherlock looked frightened.

"You'll be here...if I go to sleep, you'll be here when I wake up right?" He asked finally, John nodded.

"Even if you can't see me" John replied sincerely, "I'll do my best to make sure I'm visible ok?"

Sherlock nodded, eyes dropping closed. All the adrenaline from escaping and the shock of John's appearance had completely exhausted the wounded man. Within a few minutes he was asleep.

His ever faithful friend watching over him.

**I understand how OC that was for Sherlock but I figured 1. He lost his best friend 2. He couldn't control all the emotions that came with that and 3. His dead friend appeared right before his eyes. Thats enough to make anybody act differently. Sides this is fan fiction and if you don't make them just a little OC where is the fun? :P**

**Its been pointed out that my grammar and spell are not 100% great and I am sorry for it. I do this as a hobby and have no beta but as long as it doesn't take away from the story the occasional mistake isn't too bad right?**


	8. Chapter 8: Real

**Sherlock**

As he awoke the first thing Sherlock noticed was how relaxed he felt. The last few days he had either woken up in a haze of grief and pain or a drug addled haze. Now he woke up feeling, normal. He didn't open his eyes, he wanted this to last, while his eyes were closed he could pretend the dream of John had been real. God he wanted it to be real. Sighing he slowly opened his eyes.

The chair was empty, his heart sunk. Then his brain caught up to his grief. The chair was empty, but it was at his bedside, where John had been sitting. If anybody else had come here, they would still be sitting in that chair. Therefore, John hadn't been a dream, he really had been here, maybe he still was but Sherlock couldn't see him. At least that's what he wanted to believe.

"John?" He called tentatively, it was the only time he had spoken outside John's presence since his...death. The word was hard to form though he could not fathom why. His eyes widened in joy as John materialized in the chair, still half see through, but there.

"Finally, I've been trying to do that for the past hour" He grumbled, "it's a lot harder than you think"

"It wasn't a dream" Sherlock smiled, blinking heavily, his head hurt...

"Sherlock, you did bring antibiotics with you right?" John asked his eye brows knitting together as he placed his pal on Sherlock's forehead. The detective leaned into the touch, his hand was cool.

"Shit, you've gotten an infection" John cursed, "No wonder your so flushed, sorry Sherlock I should of noticed, it's not too bad yet though"

"I'm fine" Sherlock replied, ignoring the fog in his brain. It wasn't a lie, he was fine, John was here, that made everything fine.

"I should get you some-" John never finished the sentence cause at the moment the sound of footsteps came from the lounge and John instantly disappeared, that was ok though. Sherlock knew he was there, just invisible. Seconds later Lestrade walked through the door, sighing in relief when he saw Sherlock resting in the bed.

"Sherlock we've been looking for you!" He exclaimed before narrowing his eyes at the man, "You've got a fever"

"I don't" Sherlock argued, Lestrade smiled.

"Your talking again I see" He grinned clearly hoping this was a sign of recovery, Sherlock nodded.

"John's funereal...it's tomorrow" Lestrade bought up hesitantly, SHerlock closed his eyes again. With Ghost watching over him he'd almost forgotten he was really dead. He didn't want to remember wither, he screwed up his eyes, digging deeper into his pillow.

"I'm not going" He mumbled, he didn't want to see his best friends body lowered into the ground. To be separated forever.

"What do you mean you're not going!" Lestrade exclaimed, "It's John's funeral!"

"It'll just make it all real" Sherlock groaned, somewhere in the back on his mind he knew he'd never be saying these things to Lestrade if it wasn't for the fever but right now he didn't care, "I can't watch them burry him Greg..."

Sherlock deduced the resulting silence was due to Lestrade's surprise that Sherlock just refereed to him by his first name. John had told him that...

"Come on Sherlock-"

"Leave me alone Lestrade" Sherlock groaned, go away so John can reappear.

"I'm worried about you" Lestrade implored, "I don't want you doing anything foolish"

If his mood hadn't been so dark Sherlock would have laughed, a bit late for that inspector.

"Go 'way" Sherlock slurred, Lestrade sighed, placing a small bottle of pills by the sick man's bedside and walking out, no doubt to go and get Mrs. Hudson to make sure he took them.

John materialized, floating over in the corner of the room almost instantly.

"Sorry, I don't know why but I can only do this when you're alone" He mused, floating over to the bedside table and taking one of the pills out of the bottle and handing it to the wide eyed detective.

"Oh" John blinked, realizing he was a foot off the ground and floating back don to it, "Sorry, I got used to doing that"

"You fly" Sherlock noted dryly, his tongue started to feel like sandpaper

"Yeah, one of the few advantages of being, well dead" John shrugged, "I fly through walls too"

"Do you feel it?" Sherlock asked curiously swallowing the pill

"No, I don't really feel anything, unless I'm solid" John sighed, he looked sad, "And thats very difficult"

"You're sad" Sherlock surmised feeling strange, why would John be sad?

"I'm just, lonely" John admitted

Sherlock suddenly became frightened, what if John left?

"You've got me" Sherlock supplied

"I know"

...

**John**

He spent the afternoon looking after Sherlock as best he could, explaining what the other ghost had told him. Now Sherlock was asleep, knocked out by some sedatives John had laced his tea with. As much as he didn't want to admit it, pat of him wanted to leave. Go on to what ever was next.

Each day he stayed things got worse, maybe i was an instinct all ghosts had. Everything was numb, he never felt hot or cold, he didn't need to breath, he could talk and hear but he couldn't taste, smell or touch. It was a half existence. In a way, the numbness hurt.

At the same time he couldn't leave Sherlock, he needed somebody, anybody. But he didn't want just anybody he wanted John and he was refusing to let go. Sherlock blinked his eyes open, they brightened as John materialized in front of him, now or never.

"You have to let me go you realize?" John said finally, Sherlock's face fell.

"I'm going to be stuck here, forever if you don't" John continued

"So?" Sherlock replied bitterly

"Sherlock I can't stay" John implored

"You have to" Sherlock pleaded, really pleaded, grabbing John's wrist, "Please"

"I'll stay a little longer" John promised, "But you have to try, for me ok?"

Sherlock nodded but John didn't think it was honest.

"Go to the funeral" John ordered, Sherlock flinched

"It'll make it too real" Sherlock argued, John sighed

"Sherlock it is real"

**Sorry this is kinda crap chapter, its more filler than anything else, next one with be better I promise. Ive had the final chapter all typed up since the beginning so its just a matter of time. **


	9. Chapter 9:Pain

**Sherlock**

The funeral had been awful, for lack of a better word. John had told Sherlock to go and so he had. Every pair of eyes that et his were full of pity, he hated it. They had all talked about what a great man John was, none of them did him justice of course. The detective actually had the urge to punch his sister Harry when she turned up completely plastered, she couldn't of cleaned up her act for one day? Not even for John? When he had muttered this to Lestrade he said it was normal.

"Some people turn to alcohol for comfort in these situations" Lestrade sighed

"That's why nobody is angry?" He asked

"Yes, they feel pity for her" Lestrade explained

"Pity is for fools" Sherlock growled before going back to stoic silence.

When they lowered the casket into the ground had been the worst bit. Mrs. Hudson cried a lot, so did Molly. Everybody was watching the casket descend, Sherlock couldn't do it. So he took the chance to look around at everybody who had attend the was surprised to see Anderson and Sally there. Her eyes met his for a few seconds, for once they were not full of pity, but anger.

The people began to disperse after a while, Sherlock made his way to leave. He wanted to get back to the flat, away from this grave and back to John. He had assured him that he would be at the funeral, but he wouldn't appear, so no doubt he was at his heels right now. But he wanted to see him. He was almost out of cemetery when a voice yelled out. Sally's.

"Happy are we?"

He turned and glared.

"I told him you know, I told him one day we'd be standing round a body and you'd be the one who put it there" She yelled, "I just didn't think it'd be him"

"I didn't kill him" Sherlock whispered, Sally laughed coldly.

"Not with your own hands maybe, but he'd be perfectly fine if he had listened to me and stayed away from you" She pointed out. Every single word felt like a shard of glass in his heart. They were true and that made it hurt even more. He wanted to yell some abuse at her, like how it was obvious she was having an affair with Anderson but his tongue had gone all numb again.

"I'll bet you don't even care, look at you, just leaving straight away" She taunted again, Sherlock had no choice but to listen.

"Donovan stop!" Lestrade yelled as he came bolting out the door, shooting her a scathing look before going up to Sherlock and placing his hand on his shoulder, which the detective promptly shook off.

"Sherlock can you speak?" He asked, the detective squeezed his eyes closed and regretfully shook his head before walking off.

**Lestrade**

Sherlock walked off looking as broken as ever and that made the DI's blood boil. Just yesterday Sherlock had gotten his voice back and now Donovan had taken it from him again with her stupid taunts. He stormed up to her.

"What was that about?" He growled

"He needed to be told, he deserved it" She defended, "Look at him running away, he doesn't even care!"

"Doesn't care?" Lestrade yelled, "Donovan do you have any idea what that man has been through the last few days? He was so upset he couldn't talk, he only managed to start again yesterday and now you've set him back again!"

"He couldn't talk?" She replied shocked.

"He smashed his violin against the wall!" Lestrade continued, "The bits are still lying all over the apartment"

"Come on" Lestrade continued after a few minutes of silence, "We've given him time to cool down, we need to go make sure you haven't pushed him too far"

**Sherlock**

Sherlock ran up the stairs into the apartment, looking for anything that could get Donovan's words out of his head. John appeared almost instantly in his translucent form.

"Don't you listen to her!" He growled, "It's not true you here me?"

"But it is!" Sherlock yelled, eyes falling on the brick that concealed his little silver box in the fireplace.

"No" john said simply, obviously guessing what the detective was thinking, "Don't"

Instead Sherlock stormed into the kitchen, opening the cupboards to look for something to experiment on to hopefully take his mind of things. He came across something on John's. A very large bottle of whisky.

"_Some people turn to alcohol for comfort in these situations"_

He'd never been huge on alcohol before, a drink here and there with John had been fine but he'd never had anything very strong. Alcohol made your senses dulled, he didn't like that. However now it might work. Grabbing the bottle and unscrewing the top he downed a few mouthfuls in once hit making him cough. The liquid made his throat burn and he could already feel his head getting foggy. This could work.

After a few more minutes he'd gone through half the bottle and was feeling sick. Somewhere in the back on his brain he remembered John saying a drink like this had to be taken slowly. Well he had thrown that out the window.

"Stop it!" John yelled, appearing a few meters from a very unsteady Sherlock who had managed to make his way to the sitting room. Sherlock turned back to him with dulled eyes.

"Make me" He dared drinking another mouthful

"Stop it Sherlock! Stop it right now!" John yelled looking distraught, "I don't want to have to watch you destroy yourself"

Sherlock downed most of the bottle, ignoring John, funnily enough this slow, fuzzy feeling in his brain was all bad. It did help his heart stop hurting a bit.

"Stop it Sherlock!" John cried, Sherlock stumbled backwards as the now solid John flew at him and wrapped his arms around him. The shorter man's face pressed into his shoulder, "Stop it just stop it"

Sherlock blinked in shock and confusion for a few seconds before a huge wave or realization and guilt washed over him. He dropped the bottle and returned the gesture, he heard it land with a dull thud on the carpet. The second John let him go the detective stumbled backwards and landed on the ground leaning up against the couch. John grabbed a bucket for the detective to throw up in, which he promptly did, it took a few minutes for his stomach to empty itself, leaving the detective shaking as John whipped his mouth with a cloth he'd had the hindsight to grab. He sunk his fingers into his hair as the tears started again.

"I'm sorry, I'm sorry..." He whispered over and over he felt John grab his shoulders, he must of been kneeling in front of him, "I'm so sorry..."

"Shush, it'll be alright" John hushed, helping Sherlock onto the couch where he could lay down, making sure he was on his side incase he was sick again, "I promise it'll be ok, don't do that again"

"I won'" Sherlock slurred sleepily before closing his eyes, "I'm sorry...'m sorry..."

Sherlock began to drift as soon as his eyes closed, he felt John let go of his shoulder but he didn't panic he could still hear his voice.

"It'll be alright Sherlock, just rest..."

"Just rest..."

**Lestrade**

The thick London traffic had been hellish and with the time it had taken to convince Sally to come with him it had taken at least an hour to get to 221b. Mrs. Hudson wasn't home she had gone to be with her friends after the funeral meaning Sherlock was alone, exactly what he shouldn't be.

"I don't know why you're making me do this..." Sally sighed as they climbed the stairs, Lestrade ignored her.

"Sherlock?" Lestrade called knocking on the door at the top of the stairs, when he was met with silence he slowly opened the door to the darkroom. Sherlock was sprawled on the couch laying on his side looking ghastly. His skin was ghostly white and his dark hair stuck to his forehead with sweat. The inspector immediately spotted the very empty bottle of whiskey laying on the floor a few feet away.

"Oh Sherlock" He whispered feeling guilt bubble up inside him when he realized it was he who must of put that idea in his head from their conversation at the funeral,

"God I'm so sorry"


	10. Chapter 10: Goodbye

**Lestrade**

The inspector knelt at Sherlock's side; the man had obviously already thrown up, so now he would just have to suffer until the remaining alcohol worked its way out of his system. Donovan stayed perfectly still by the door, but she didn't matter right now. He quickly told her to go into the kitchen and get a glass of water, the detective was going to need it.

"Sherlock" Lestrade called gently giving the mans shoulder a shake, "Hey Sherlock wake up"

"John?" Sherlock mumbled opening his bleary eyes and blinking slowly, they dulled slightly when the detective realised it was Lestrade in front of him, not John.

"Afraid not mate" Lestrade sighed, "You're a right git y'know? What on earth are you doing to yourself"

"Here" Sally re entered the room, water in hand. Lestrade could see two aspirin pills fizzing in the bottom as well. Sherlock stiffened slightly. Thankfully Lestrade took the glass and held it up for Sherlock to drink, the detective pulled away, or at least tried to, he only managed to move an inch or so.

"Come on" Lestrade coaxed, "Trust me this will help"

"Get away…" Sherlock moaned, weakly swiping at the glass and turning his back on the two.

"Donovan you'd better go, you will be no help" Lestrade said finally, "I just bought you here to prove you were wrong"

Donovan shrugged and walked out a little too quickly, happy to be away from the ill detective. Lestrade looked over the empty bottle, it was strong stuff, Sherlock was going to have one hell of a headache.

"Sherlock, you need water" Lestrade sighed, "You are going to be very dehydrated and it will help"

"Lemme sleep" he demanded, he reminded Lestrade of a kid with a flu, all moaning and insufferable bad moods.

"After you drink," Lestrade demanded, propping Sherlock up despite the mans weak struggled to not become vertical. Dejectedly the young man drank the water, Lestrade didn't let him lay back down until he had downed it, aspirin and all. He fell asleep in an instant, leaving a very tired inspector to get comfy and wait. It was going to be a long night.

**Sherlock**

When he woke the first thing he became aware of was the pounding in his head. He felt awful and achy all over, so this was what it was like to be hung over. He didn't like it. He moaned involuntarily as he opened his eyes, the lighting of the room was dull, but even the slightest beam of sunlight seemed to burn itself into his eyes.

"Well look who's awake" Lestrade grinned passing Sherlock a bit of toast, which he took, "Enjoying the after effects"

"Sod off Lestrade" Sherlock replied dryly, happy to see his voice had returned properly.

"You need to look after yourself" The older man implored, "John wouldn't want you destroying yourself like this"

"I know" Sherlock sighed, he couldn't help but flick his eyes around the room looking for John. He had to be here somewhere but for now i looked as if he was invisible.

"Here, I bought this to give to you at the funeral but I never got round to it" Lestrade offered the detective a manila folder filled with case files.

Limbs, especially hands, were being found in dumpsters all over London, strung together. Yet nobody was coming forward about being attacked and nobody was reporting into hospitals with missing limbs. Sherlock felt a small buzz of excitement due to the mystery. He could spend a few days working on his, perhaps John would join him for a bit. At least he wouldn't be wallowing in his guilt if he had this.

He nodded in thanks to Lestrade and began reading through the case, hopefully Lestrade would take the hint and leave so John could reappear. It seemed he did because he man got up to leave, Sherlock couldn't help noticing the creases in his clothes indicating he had slept in them, he must of been here a long time.

Several minutes later John appeared and glanced over the papers looking pleased.

"There now you have something to do" He smiled

Indeed he did. Sherlock spent the next few days solving the case of missing hands and feet, which turned out to of been cut from corpses, hence the lack of living people missing their extremities. The minute he finished that case Lestrade gave him another, this cycle went on for weeks. It was after the fourth case that Sherlock began to catch on.

"Lestrade is trying to keep me busy isn't he?" Sherlock asked the air, John appeared once every day or so now but he knew the man was there. At least he was most of the time.

"Took you a long time to catch on" John replied materialising in thin air a few feet from Sherlock, the latter grumbled.

"It worked" John smiled, "You've been happy these last few weeks, I'll bet you I could stop appearing soon"

'NO!" Sherlock yelled, "You can't leave"

"Sherlock..." John sighed, "I've explained this to you"

"Yes about passing on and all that" Sherlock growled, looking at his experiments instead of John angrily.

"I've been here almost two months, most people only stay a few days" John said quietly

"You want to leave" Sherlock said finally feeling a sense of betrayal building up within him. John wanted to leave him. He wanted to. It wasn't a matter of having to he actually wanted to go and leave Sherlock all on his own again.

"In a way" John admitted, "I'm miserable, lonely and almost completely numb being stuck here in, limbo"

Lonely, what did John know about being lonely? Sherlock had only had one friend in his entire life. John had many, he could tell. Sure he couldn't speak to them anymore but he had Sherlock, that was something.

Deep down though Sherlock knew John was right, he did need to move on. Both of them did. He just didn't want to. While he had cases sure he'd be alright but in those dull times in between he couldn't bar to be alone again. Once he had done it but once he'd actually had a friend he found it hard to go back to being on his own again.

So closing his eyes and taking a deep breath Sherlock did something he should of done months ago. He accepted John was dead. He wasn't really there, he was gone, he was dead.

But it wasn't his fault.

"Thankyou"

Sherlock looked back up to John who had acquired a strange golden sheen around the edges. Small balls of lights were coming off him as he faded, floating upwards and solving. John was disintegrating before his eyes! John looked at his hands curiously, faint smile on his features. Sherlock bit back tears.

"Do you have to?" He asked quietly, John looked him in eye and nodded.

"Don't do anything stupid, alright?" john asked, his voice had a strange kind of echo to it, Sherlock let the tears fall, John wouldn't care.

"It's not fair" Sherlock sobbed, John was almost completely gone now, the strange ethereal light engulfed him, leaving Sherlock completely alone. He tried to take a step forward towards where John had been standing a few seconds earlier only to end up falling onto his knees, tears dripped onto the ground, his head snapped up when he heard John's voice again, faint and echoey, he could tell it was his final goodbye.

_Remember Sherlock, you were loved by me, and you made my life a happy one._

_And there's no tragedy in that..._

**There will be an epilogue chapter which wont be very long, Im working on it now. The final line is actually an altered version of the last lines of the film Third Star which has Benedict Cumberbatch as the leading role. Its one of my faves, Id recommend it to anybody but fair warning its very very sad**_  
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	11. Chapter 11: Epilogue

**Five Years Later**

**Sherlock**

Sherlock raced around the corner in front of Lestrade after the deranged and most likely high terrorist they had been trying to catch for the last hour. Lestrade as usual was left in the dust as Sherlock bolted after the man, adrenaline pumping as it always did when he chased down a criminal. This particular case had kept him busy for almost a week, dare he say it, it was fun. The man had himself cornered in the end of the alley. Sherlock grinned.

"Well, looks like you've hit a dead end" He said slyly

"Yeah, so have you" He retorted. Sherlock had been about to point out that unlike his companion he was not backed up against the wall when he grasped the meaning of his words. Faster than even Sherlock Holmes could anticipate the man had whirled around, gun in hand he fired. He heard Lestrade yell.

"Sherlock!"

The detective flinched, waiting for the pain. Which didn't come. Strange. He opened his eyes to find he was perfectly fine, standing where he had been before he closed his eyes instinctually. That was embarrassing.

"Lousy shot" He drawled, the man ignored him in favour of being tackled and knocked out by Lestrade, Sherlock had never seen the man so angry.

"It's alright Lestrade, he's out already" Sherlock pointed out as Lestrade got up off the unconscious man.

"God Sherlock…" He sighed, looking past Sherlock and onto the ground, Sherlock followed his friend's gaze and landed on himself, on the ground. Very, very still. A bullet wound in his forehead.

Oh.

"Well, that's embarrassing" Came a voice from his right, "Killed by a terrorist with a simple gun, you will never stop moaning about how you died in such a simple manner"

Sherlock whipped around to see John leaning against the wall, the detective almost fell over. If John was here and he was invisible and he was on the ground….

"I'm dead" He concluded out loud

"Well you caught on faster than I did" John laughed, "Will you be sticking around long?"

He looked back at the face of a very distraught Lestrade, who was covering him in a sheet given to the inspector by the ambulance workers. When did they get here?

Lestrade was strong, he would be ok.

"No" Sherlock replied, "I don't think so, why are you here?"

"Aren't you pleased to see me?" John asked, Sherlock replied with a hug, taking the doctor by surprise.

"I thought you, moved on" Sherlock growled when he let John go.

"I did, but I figured you might like some company when you kicked the bucket" John replied, "I knew the date that you were going to die the minute I moved on, so I came back to bring you back with me"

"Thankyou" Sherlock replied, glancing back at his body, slightly annoyed he had died in such a trivial manner.

"I knew you wouldn't wanna be alone"

"You were right"

**The End**


	12. Chapter 12: Epilogue II

Greg Lestrade had lived a good, long life. He had even become head of Scotland Yard, of course he'd given up his police days years ago. He was verging on 80 now and he couldn't go running about the streets anymore, no matter how much he wanted to.

The ex-Inspector sat on the couch in his living room, content to just relax as he did most Sundays. He closed his eyes and reflected on how much everything had changed over the last few decades. Anderson finally admitted his affair with Sally to his wife, divorced her and promptly married Sally. They were actually very happy together and working with them was suddenly much more bearable. They'd both retired now, last he'd heard they were living somewhere in Surrey.

Of course thinking back on these things his thoughts became tinged with sadness as the forever young faces of John Watson and Sherlock Holmes formed in his mind. He'd never forget how distraught Sherlock had been when John had been killed in the explosion at the warehouse. For those first few months the man was a walking shadow, after a while he got better only to relapse into depression once more.

Eventually the man had gotten back on his feet but he was never the same, he was always, hollower. Then came the day five years after John's own passing that Sherlock finally joined him thanks to a nervous criminal with a trigger happy finger. Lestrade had always felt guilty about it, if he'd only gotten there sooner perhaps he could of saved the younger man. He couldn't help but be reminded of those stories of old couples who die within weeks of one another, it wasn't exactly the same but somehow Greg couldn't help but smile at the thought.

They had buried Sherlock next to John at Mycroft's insistence, the funeral was small and practical, Sherlock would of liked it. The whole affair was bitter sweet really, in a way people were relieved because finally the detective could be with his blogger again.

He must of fallen asleep at some point because when he opened his eyes again the sun was setting, he got up a lot faster than usual without the normal aches in his bones. For the first time in years he felt light on his feet, almost like he could go running around London again. The good feeling faded however when he saw his own body sitting on the couch.

"And I thought my death was drab." An all too familiar voice drawled, "Dying in your sleep? Really it's so, peaceful."

Greg's eyes widened at the sight, there in front of him siting at his dining table was Sherlock Holmes. His face hadn't aged a day, he looked exactly the same as he had the day Lestrade had found him with a bullet hole in his head, he was even wearing the same clothes. The only thing missing was the bullet wound.

His jaw dropped as John seemingly materialized out of thin air standing next to him.

"Sherlock play nice, the man is probably a little shocked," John scolded, "I know I was."

"You...but you guys?" Greg stammered.

"Died 32 years ago?" Sherlock provided, "Yes, we did."

"How are you here?" He croaked.

"Sorry to be the barer of bad news Greg," John sighed, "But you kicked the bucket. And may I say, your death was much more pleasant than either of ours."

"I'm the one who took a bullet to the brain." Sherlock grumbled.

"I got blown up Sherlock!" John argued before sighing, this was evidently a conversation they had had many times, "Can we discuss this later when we are back with Mrs. Hudson and Mycroft?"

"Mycroft and Martha are here too?" Greg gaped.

"No, they are back in..." John trailed off, "Well, we don't really know what to call it, but we came to take you with us."

"It's always good to have company when you die." Sherlock added, "Poor John was stuck as a ghost for nearly two months before I let him pass on."

"Wait, those first 2 months when John died in the explosion, you could SEE him?" Lestrade gasped.

"And talk with him and occasionally touch." Sherlock added. Lestrade made a face, John rolled his eyes.

"Come on let's go." John said quietly, "I promised Sherlock we could go and solve the Jack the Ripper case today."

"Jack the Ripper?" Greg chuckled.

"We have all the unsolved cases in history to solve!" Sherlock grinned ear to ear, "Care to join us?"

Greg watched in wonder as his palms became smooth again and his hair darkened, he was sure of he looked in a mirror he'd look 40 again.

"Why not?" he grinned.

"The game is on!"

**I know I finished this ages ago but a fan gave me the most wonderful reviews and I couldn't help but write this!**


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